Sherlock's memory of those next few minutes after Lestrade had found him was patchy at best, but he could recall opening his eyes and seeing the detective inspector kneeling over him, his voice much too loud and yet strangely far away.
Blackness.
Then Lestrade was fumbling with a cell phone; the fact that he was probably calling an ambulance vaguely registered in Sherlock's mind, and he tried to shake his head.
The simple sight of blood frightened normal people... But Sherlock had seen it too many times to care. He wanted to explain to Lestrade just how childish he was being, how much he was overreacting...
He was okay.
Blood was okay.
Why couldn't Lestrade see that?
There was absolutely nothing to call anyone over, nothing to worry about...
Blackness.
Lestrade was shaking him by the shoulder gently—and yet Sherlock felt sick at the movement. He tried to speak, but he found that his body would not obey him, and the sound cracked in his throat.
At the same time, the denial shattered.
He was going to die.
He was going to bleed out here, on this shitty old carpet, in near darkness, with only a man who must think him pathetic and powerless beyond measure to keep him company.
He hadn't done anything yet.
He wasn't finished...
The game had hardly even begun.
And yet...
Blackness.
Things were different after that.
For a little while Lestrade seemed hesitant to call on him about cases, as if he were afraid he would somehow tip the apparently fragile balance between sanity and self-destruction in Sherlock's brain.
It drove Sherlock mad.
No, more than that.
It triggered him.
But he resisted as best he could, dealing with the seething frustration and boredom any way he possibly could without breaking the skin.
He had, after all, just nearly died on the floor.
Too many stitches to count, and a nicked artery to boot. He had played along with the doctors and psychiatrists, did as they had asked and recited his lines whenever they asked him their stupid questions.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"No, I'm not suicidal or homicidal. It was an accident."
"I feel better now."
"I'll stop."
In the end, he'd gone free.
He was already aware that at that point in time other people didn't really understand what he was doing. Nobody was yet accustomed to dealing with people who did what he did. They didn't quite know how to look at someone who hurt himself on purpose.
That only made the crushing burden of shame heavier on his shoulders.
It only triggered him more.
He was sick of being the freak… in more ways than one.
So although he didn't respond when the attending nurse made a comment on how useless it was to sew him back up if he was only going to do it all over again, her words struck a chord.
Maybe it was useless.
He didn't deserve the care if he'd chosen to do this to himself. That was what she'd meant, ultimately.
Sherlock hated hospitals.
And yet he hadn't died. He was still alive and kicking, and in time he knew that Lestrade would have to ask him for help again. He always had to.
He was just that good.
"—ock..."
Slow, foggy shadows across the mind.
"—erlock?"
Getting clearer...
"Sherlock. Hey. Earth to Sherlock Holmes."
His eyes slid into focus and immediately locked on John, who was waving a hand in front of his face warily.
"Hm?"
"There you are. You zoned out or something, I think. What's wrong?"
Sherlock frowned as he took stock of his surroundings all over again, the morning sunlight pouring in through the windows, the blade on the countertop... "Your coffee's finished—I've been standing here for over two minutes, at least. Why didn't you slap me or something?" He pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning against the counter and turned, heading back to his room. "It's useless to dwell on the past."
John just stood there for a minute, head tilted slightly. "...What?"